Nobody's Puppet
by Rollerwings
Summary: For as long as he could remember, he'd been drawn to bully those weaker than him. On a sun-splashed summer afternoon, he becomes an unlikely hero to children at a day camp by chasing off a suspicious driver lurking around the park in a purple car, setting the course for the afterlife he is thrust into all too soon. A short Puppet origin story.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating:** T for mild profanity, perilous situations, implied violence, tobacco use

 **Setting:** 1976, in a small town

 **Summary:** For as long as he could remember, he'd been drawn to bully those weaker than him. On a sun-splashed summer afternoon, he becomes an unlikely hero to children at a summer day camp by chasing off a suspicious driver lurking around the park in a purple car, setting the course for the afterlife he is thrust into all too soon. A short Puppet origin story.

 **Author's Note:** _Five Nights at Freddy's_ and all canon characters, settings, etc. are the property of Scott Cawthon. This is a non-commercial fan tribute and was not written for profit.

You are free to use any original concepts, headcanons and characters from this fanfiction in your own work (fanfiction, art, etc.) if you'd like.

Views expressed in this fanfiction do not necessarily match the writer's.

* * *

"Heads up, loser!"

Clyde Miller turned just in time for a water balloon to strike him square in the chest, dousing his t-shirt. The children seated at the picnic tables around him looked up from their coloring projects and burst into laughter at the unexpected sight of their day camp counselor thoroughly drenched.

"Aww, _real_ funny, wiseguy!" the teenager sputtered at the sudden barrage, drying the large frames of his eyeglasses on the corner of his shirt and peering out for the culprit. "If it wasn't ninety-five degrees in the shade, I'd have it out with you." Placing his hands on his hips, he confronted his aggressor, a teen close to his own age standing next to the laundry basket of water balloons with a smirk plastered across his face that practically dared the other boy to make good on his threat.

"Hey, those are for the water fight _later,"_ Clyde argued. "What brought you here, anyway, Buddy? Don't you have anything better to do than pester a bunch of kids at summer camp?" Around him, the children brushed drops of water off their papers and resumed coloring, pretending not to listen to the heated conversation between their counselor and the newcomer.

 _Buddy._ The teen detested the nickname that had been bestowed upon him early in childhood, and in recent years he had made no small effort to remind everyone around him that he was by no means anybody's "bud." He'd only reluctantly settled for the nickname because he hated his birth name even more.

"I've no choice in the matter, Clydesdale," he shot back, using his nemesis's equally-hated nickname and pulling a packet of papers from the pocket of his jeans. "Who can sign off on these and what do I gotta do around here?" Clyde stared at the teen, clad in his usual striped bandanna and a jet-black t-shirt. Buddy favored monochrome, dreary outfits, but his dedication to his personal style was even more impressive in the suffocating heat.

 _"You're_ helping at the camp?" the young counselor asked incredulously. "Let me guess, court-ordered community service, right?" He couldn't imagine any other reason that would have brought the most notorious bully from high school to the town park, where the recreation council held its free day camp every summer for local children. He and Buddy had a certain history together; the previous school year, the older teen had welcomed him to high school by blackening his eye just for mistakenly using a stairwell that was supposedly forbidden to freshmen. Clyde had steered clear of the aggressive bully ever since, always fearful he'd return with a new way to torment him, and he had assumed the summer camp would be a safe refuge his enemy wouldn't think to tread.

"You got it, a full hundred hours. If I can offer you any advice, it's not to get caught out in an alley four hours past curfew with a can of spray paint in your hand," Buddy suggested, grinning as though he hardly remembered the stairwell incident. "Also, develop some reflexes, already! You didn't even duck when I nailed you with that water bomb."

"'S'cuse me for not _expecting_ that," Clyde grumbled. "At least the kids know better than to throw these before it's recreation time. But the senior counselors are over that way," he said in resignation, pointing to a nearby pavilion where a group of adults were going over some sort of paperwork, "and, I dunno, if you're looking for something to do, maybe you can help cut out more of these. Today's theme is 'theater' and we need forty more of 'em." He held a white paper mask, cut from a paper plate and glued to a tongue depressor, in front of his face, invoking an involuntary shudder from the other boy.

"Eew, those are creepy. I never liked those theater masks myself," the bully admitted, his eyes falling on the bits of paper that had been cut from the masks to create holes for the wearer's eyes and mouth. "Seriously, who thought kids would dig that as a craft project?"

"Beats me," admitted Clyde, "but we're also making paper-bag puppets. Less talk and more cutting." Ever safety-conscious, he passed his new helper a pair of scissors, his hand protectively clutching the closed blades and earning an eye-roll from the other teenager.

* * *

The sun was directly over the pavilions by the time Buddy had finished the stack of masks while Clyde wrangled the restless children from one activity to another, and he wiped sweat from his brow. If he was going to complete the community service requirements and avoid more serious trouble, he had resigned himself to putting up with his school mate, who he'd already dismissed as a hopeless case. Gazing over at him, he rolled his eyes to see Clyde showing a young camper how to make a paper bag puppet's mouth move as though it was talking.

"Why are you always grinning like a fool when we're both stuck in the worst pit of Kiddie Hell?" he demanded of him some time later, as they carried a heavy drink dispenser to refill it at the pump near the town's maintenance building.

Clyde looked around cautiously, ensuring there were no children in earshot. "Hey, you may not see it this way, but for most of these kids, this is the best thing that'll happen to 'em all summer. The kids with money are away at Disney or a real sleep-away camp or something. Didn't you come here yourself as a kid? I dunno if your family had it any better than mine growing up, but with nine of us kids we didn't go on too many vacations." His face reddened slightly. "Still, this day camp was something to look forward to every year." To his surprise, Buddy nodded, the glint of understanding in his eyes.

"Okay, I get it, but what I don't get is how a square like _you_ got roped into doing this. Nobody our age in his right mind would be caught dead here, so what exactly did you _do?" This had better be good,_ he thought with anticipation.

"Uh, after the last day of school, I just filled out an application with the rec department," Clyde answered naively, drawing a low whistle of amazement from his school mate.

"I-I _meant,_ I was wondering what kind of trouble you'd gotten yourself into to be ordered to help out here!" he exclaimed. "You're seriously doing this for nothing?" His rival nodded, still not understanding the disbelief, as they returned to the pavilion and set the drink dispenser on the end of a picnic table.

"Not quite for nothing," Clyde admitted. "I mean, it's unpaid - I've got my dishwashing job and lawn-mowing gigs for that - but these little guys really look up to us, and that's something."

 _Nerd._ Buddy shrugged, emptying a pouch of drink crystals into the tall dispenser and stirring it with a long wooden spoon.

* * *

From the corner of his eye, Buddy caught sight of a child sneaking glances his way, or rather at his artwork. To demonstrate the craft to the children, he had taken a paper bag and created a true monster of a character, using a marker to scrawl a hideous, toothy grin, bloodshot eyes and devilish horns on the paper, and the boy seated closest to him had meticulously copied the entire design onto his own art project.

"That's really neat," the child admitted when he discovered his mimicry had not gone unnoticed. "I wish _I_ could draw like that." Buddy waved away his praise, feeling a little self-conscious. In truth, he rather enjoyed expressing himself through artwork, but he kept his drawings hidden away for fear of being mislabeled as a hopeless dreamer or worse. Guys his age weren't supposed to sketch fantasy creatures and landscapes from faraway worlds, or so he'd been told.

"Aw, uh, thanks, and I suppose if you really like it, you can have mine, too. I'm not taking it home." As the child's face lit up and he eagerly ran off with one bag over each hand, Buddy had to admit that it felt good to give something away, even if it was a halfhearted attempt at creating a character out of a lousy lunch sack.

* * *

"Hey, there any more where these came from?" he asked at lunch, holding up an empty tray that had held sandwiches provided by the recreation department. "These kids ate them like they were going out of style, and they're still hungry." His mind flashed back to his own childhood summers at the camp, when it seemed as though he could never get enough sandwiches, sliced fruit and trail mix. Not surprisingly, he had returned to school that autumn a full three inches taller than the year before.

"Sure, there's enough bread and peanut butter back at the township building to feed a small army," said Clyde, watching with surprise as his rival hefted the tray above his head like a waiter at a fine restaurant.

"Then I shall return, kiddies, with sandwiches for all!" He bowed grandiosely to the young diners.

 _Huh, what's gotten into him?_ the counselor was left wondering.

* * *

"Y'know, the kids really look up to you," Clyde told his helper later as they sat on a table watching the campers run wild, waving their decorated theater masks around. It felt strange to be talking to the other teen almost as if they were old friends, but by late afternoon he no longer felt his stomach twist with apprehension when Buddy approached, and he was slowly losing his fear that the bully might sucker-punch him when he least expected it. "Seriously, it's not fair. One day in and you're already their hero."

Buddy pulled his mask over his face in response, sticking his tongue out through the hole for the mouth. "Aww, it's nothing. I just didn't feel up to dealing with fifty cranky, hungry kids, so I threw more food their way." He paused, letting the mask drop to reveal the sharply-angled features of his face. "Hey, uh, speaking of lunch, I sorta noticed at school that you skip it more often than not." He smirked at the teen, who was nearly as tall as and lean as himself. "You trying to lose weight or something?" The camp counselor's face reddened behind the lenses of his glasses.

"Sorry, I guess you hear that a lot, too?" Buddy quickly corrected himself, and before he realized what he was doing, he'd blurted out that he'd only taken notice because he himself sat alone most of the time, and he admitted how much he detested trying to find a table to eat where he wouldn't be treated like an unwelcome dining guest, how he usually downed his food in a rush while hiding his face behind a comic book and darted out as quickly as he'd come in.

"Y'see, I hate lunch as much as I think you do," he admitted to Clyde, who was stunned to learn the bully found it just as hard to fit in at school as he did. "But since you're not half-bad after all, maybe in the fall do you wanna sit together?" He grinned, pretending to throw an imaginary item through the air. "When the next food fight breaks out, I'll keep you safe. I have pretty good aim and a good pitching arm."

"I'd like that," Clyde said quietly, a small grin crossing his face. They sat in awkward silence for a moment before Buddy abruptly changed the subject.

"Hey, is it just me or has that car passed by more than a few times?"

Clyde followed his gaze to the gravel road at the edge of the park, a good football field's distance away. Behind the row of pines, he briefly caught sight of a vehicle's fender and tail lights as it rolled past. The teenager shrugged, brushing off craft glitter that stubbornly clung to his arms.

"I wouldn't worry about it," he said dismissively. "Maybe the guy's lost. But we could have the kids stay up here anyway, if you're freaked out about it."

"You're probably right," agreed Buddy. "Did you get a load of that, though? What kind of weirdo drives a purple car?" He stared out at the pine trees for some time after the suspicious car had disappeared.

(( Continued... ))


	2. Crazy, Just Crazy

At long last, the day at camp drew to a close, and the children began departing in small groups, some walking and others retrieving their bicycles. Weary from the responsibility of keeping watch over so many young campers, Buddy flopped down on the hillside near Clyde, his wet clothing still dripping. Multicolored fragments of rubber from dozens of burst water balloons littered the grass around them.

"You never told me that being their hero also meant I'd become the prime target during the water battle," he laughed, not really minding because of the slight relief that being soaked provided against the oppressive heat. "That was hardly a fair fight; I was so outnumbered I never stood a chance." Fumbling in the pocket of his t-shirt, he pulled out a drenched and misshapen paper box. "Aw, and now my smokes are ruined," he grumbled, his rare good mood soured. To his surprise, his fellow counselor didn't hesitate to retrieve a pack from his own pocket.

"Have one of mine," Clyde offered without a second thought. "Just don't light up until the last of the kids are outta here, okay? Y'know, we should set a good example and all." The other boy just stared blankly at the cigarette before finally regaining his wits and taking it.

"I've gotta admit, I never imagined a square like you would smoke," Buddy admitted, only catching his slight insult after he'd spoken.

"Trust me, I'd catch it at home if my folks saw me lighting up," Clyde admitted. "I really should give it up already, but it's too easy to buy the darned things." He smirked. "At work there's a vending machine at the end of this hall that nobody uses, right in the back by the kitchen-" Buddy cut him off.

"That's right, didn't you say you wash dishes at Fredbear's?" he asked, getting a nod in return. "Your vending machine is hardly a secret; I've been to the diner myself to throw a few quarters in the games and then grab some smokes on the sly." He laughed. "Your boss knew what he was doing, tucking that machine away out of sight in the hallway. From what I've seen, it must earn him some pretty sweet revenue from the young crowd. Maybe the next time I'm by that way I'll stop in and say hi."

"Just keep it on the down-low," Clyde warned. "I'm getting paid under the table, so I'm not really supposed to make a big deal out of working there." Buddy shook his head in disbelief. Between his less-than-legal employment and smoking habit, maybe his new friend was at least slightly more nervy than he'd previously thought. His choice to target him the year before at school had been little more than chance; the kid had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and had invoked his wrath on a particularly bad day. It was only now that he was coming across as someone he could respect, and maybe even like.

"Will do," the teen promised, gazing longingly at the cigarette he clutched in his hand. "So anyway, when are these kids gonna scram so I can-" He abruptly fell silent, peering at a trio of children who were lingering by the gravel road at the far end of the park. A bicycle, its wheel still spinning, lay forgotten on the grass nearby, and he caught sight of a flash of chrome reflecting in the sunlight just at the edge of the pine trees. _A vehicle's bumper..._

"I can't believe it! The purple car guy's back," he announced, his voice tense. Clyde was already rising to his feet, but Buddy put out an arm to stop him. "No. You make sure the rest of the kids stay here. I'll send those three back up to you and then _I'll_ deal with our creeper."

"No way. That one boy down there is my kid brother!" the camp counselor protested, recognizing Keith's familiar orange tank top, the same one he'd help him pick out that morning to wear. "He was supposed to take his bike straight home..." Before he could say more or start after the boys, the other teenager shoved roughly him in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground just as he had in the stairwell at their high school.

"Let me handle this," Buddy pleaded over his shoulder, already taking off down the hill before Clyde could respond. There would be time for apologies later. His sneakers barely touching the grass, he sprinted toward the children, slipping noiselessly through the spindly pine trees near the road.

* * *

"What do you think you're doing? _Get_ back up there!" Buddy snapped, his eyes flashing with anger as he emerged from the woods. The three boys he'd reprimanded backed away from the large sedan, too startled to argue with their counselor, and lost no time in scrambling up the hill where Clyde awaited by the picnic pavilions.

"Well, _that_ was a little harsh," remarked a voice from inside the vehicle, its driver sounding completely unconcerned that he was being confronted about lurking around the park. Undeterred, the black-clad teenager ducked lower, glaring at him through the open window.

"You haven't _seen_ harsh yet," he growled. "Care to tell me why you're back again? Don't think I didn't notice you driving by earlier. Your car's pretty hard to miss." The driver leaned back, one arm slung casually over the back of the passenger seat, and snickered openly at the teen.

"I got lost," he said in an uncaring, surly tone, keeping one eye on the other counselor who was keeping his distance, a tiny, far-off figure with his arms outstretched toward the children who had almost reached him. Clad in a bright yellow camp t-shirt and cut-offs, he presented quite a contrast to the boy who was actually bold enough to confront him. "That one kid's bike chain slipped and I offered to help him fix it so he wouldn't have to walk home."

* * *

"My stupid bike chain broke, and that man said he'd give all of us a ride home," the boy explained to his brother, slumping dejectedly onto a picnic bench. "I'm in a lot of trouble, aren't I?"

"No, not really, but you shouldn't have talked to that guy, Keith. We don't know him," Clyde consoled the fretful child, feeling overwhelmed and helpless now that the senior counselors had left for the day. Scraped knees and bee stings he could handle, but the current situation left him in over his head, with his concern for his new friend growing by the moment.

"Why's _he_ talking to him, then?" Keith demanded, echoing Clyde's worries. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"I...I think he's chasing away a bad guy," Clyde said, wishing he could be as confident as he tried to sound for his brother's sake.

* * *

The potent smell of patchouli, mixed with the baked-plastic odor of a dashboard ruthlessly heated by the sun, met Buddy as he glared defiantly into the car, both hands now gripping the open window frame as if he was daring the driver to take off. The man behind the wheel returned his stare, his expression inscrutable.

"You're not fooling anyone, and I think it's best you leave," Buddy said tensely, unused to facing down anyone significantly older than himself.

"Oh? That's a real relief that I'm free to go." The driver gave an exaggerated wave, a gesture of false gratitude as though Buddy was a highway officer releasing him on a verbal warning. "You'd better head back up there yourself. Your pal looks a little lost without you." He smirked, his gaze on the picnic pavilion where Clyde paced anxiously, the children peering curiously from behind a picnic table as though their counselor had "circled the wagons" in an effort to protect them. _Curse him. Curse them both._ Those three had been nearly within his clutches, so alluringly close to his car, until the hawk-eyed, scruffy-looking kid confronting him now had tried to be a hero.

His hunting grounds no longer a secret, the driver abruptly lost his last shred of patience and clamped the gas pedal to the floor with his boot, lurching the hefty car forward and forcing Buddy to spring back seconds before his feet would have been rolled over. The car's wing mirror reflected a wholly satisfying image of the teenager enveloped in a choking cloud of gravel dust, at least until it fell victim to a thrown projectile, a rock hastily scooped up from the roadside.

The car bounced to a halt and the driver cooly plucked a wickedly sharp sliver of glass from the back of his hand where it had embedded itself, then reached for the door handle not far from where the wing mirror now dangled uselessly from the car's body. Buddy was standing tall and confident, practically daring him to retaliate.

"This," vowed the seething man, "is _not_ over. You'd best watch your back." Yet it seemed over at least for the meantime, leaving the teenager to watch as he swung back into his seat and sped away, the two rows of tail lights on the vehicle as it receded into the distance a welcome sight.

* * *

"You're crazy, just crazy!" Clyde cried out, his relief so intense he found himself clutching Buddy up in an awkward crush of a hug. For one moment both were reluctant to break their embrace, then they let their arms drop. "Ha, and you're still soaked. But what did he _say_ to you? Do you think we should call the cops?"

"No." Buddy's voice was as firm as his sudden grip on Clyde's arm. He beckoned him some distance away from the boys who were watching them with nothing short of worshipful eyes, then continued. "What would we tell them, that I busted off a guy's car mirror for laughs?" No doubt used to trusting authority, the other teen clearly didn't understand. "Even if they did find him, it would be his word against ours, and who's going to believe a juvenile delinquent?" He stooped to pick up a forgotten paper plate mask from under the picnic table, sinking onto the bench and gazing into the undecorated white visage.

"One more strike against me and I'd finish up the summer in juvie hall; the judge said it himself," he admitted solemnly, twirling the mask on its stick. "Can you imagine what that would be like? Orders shouted at you from sunup to sundown, not a moment to think or do anything for yourself." He visibly shuddered at the thought of such a severe restriction to his freedom. "I may not be thrilled about being here, but I'll _never_ wind up there. I'm nobody's puppet."

* * *

Exactly four weeks later, Buddy pulled out a packet of papers from behind his back, presenting them to Clyde with a flourish.

"Read 'em and weep," he said triumphantly. "That's what a hundred hours of community service looks like, all documented and signed off on. Five hours a day, five days a week. _Man,_ is it going to feel good turning these in first thing tomorrow." He grinned, his face glowing in contrast against his dark clothing.

"Uh, yeah, I guess it will," said Clyde, immediately crestfallen though he knew he should praise him for the accomplishment. "The kids are sure gonna miss you the rest of summer, and this place won't be the same without you." Behind him, young faces froze in open-mouthed surprise and crayons fell forgotten from their hands as the children registered what was happening.

Buddy put his hands on his hips and grinned, not wanting to prolong their shock. "Well now, imagine if I decided to stick it out the last two weeks after all?"

"Uh oh, don't tell me you got sentenced to more service hours," Clyde exclaimed in a jestful reprimand.

"Nope, not this time! This one's by my own choice," Buddy was certain to emphasize. "Besides, maybe I do need less idle time on my hands. It just might keep me out of trouble."

"Really?" Clyde's face lit up, then promptly reddened behind the lenses of his glasses. "I mean, that's great! Otherwise, I'd have a tough time living up to your reputation. You've set some pretty high standards around here, whipping up all those great meals when I can barely pour a glass of milk, and making all those balloon animals-" He was cut off by an eager young voice.

"And you can draw _anything_ we ask for," a child pointed out before returning to her coloring project, an outline of a puppy she had requested from the talented counselor earlier in the day.

"It's true, and meanwhile, I'm lucky to turn out a good stick figure," Clyde said with a shrug, amplifying his supposed inadequacies to such comical proportions that the children burst out into giggles around him.

Keith leaned in close to Buddy, ready to confide in him a great secret. "He may be my brother, but he couldn't chase off bad guys like you can, either." Clyde had warned him not to scare the other campers with accounts of the strange driver, but he had hardly forgotten the heroic bravery the older boy had displayed.

Buddy shrugged off the praise. "All right, can it with the flattery already. It might go to my head, and besides, Clyde's not so bad." He didn't miss the smile flash across his friend's face, but he wasn't about to tell him the other reason he had known all along he couldn't leave the camp once his service obligation was fulfilled.

As much as he envied his fellow counselor's carefree spirit, his attention was never far from the constant whereabouts of every child, even counting them periodically to reassure himself none had strayed too far, and his eyes were often drawn to the far-off gravel road where he had confronted the stranger. Most of all, the encounter remained ingrained in his mind, and he found himself always thinking, always questioning whether the man would make good on his vow to return.


	3. This Late in the Game

A day before classes were scheduled to begin, Buddy made his way through the deserted halls of his high school, the floors beneath him gleaming so brightly under a fresh coat of polyurethane they caught his reflection. The secretary's desk at the central office was unattended and stacked with freshly mimeographed memos, but the strains of a radio from the guidance counselor's office just down the corridor raised his hopes that he hadn't been the only one to arrive early for school.

* * *

"Heyya!" Though he extended his usual genuine greeting, the counselor's face registered complete shock to encounter the teenager, and he set down the file folders he'd been thumbing through. Underneath a mop of sparse but untamed hair, his brow furrowed and the lines around his eyes tightened as he broke into the trademark good-natured smile he was rarely seen without. "Well, aren't you here early! What can I do for you?"

Feeling entirely out of place, Buddy shuffled his feet. "It's about the classes I registered for back in the spring, sir."

 _"Sir?"_ asked the counselor, sounding vaguely amused. "Please, call me Al. Until classes are in session and it's time to break out the tweed coats again, first names will do." He gestured down at his faded denim shorts and cheap foam sandals, chuckling, but just as swiftly extracted a particular folder from those on the desk and clutched it to his chest, covering the Rolling Stones logo emblazoned on his concert t-shirt. "I was worried you'd be back here, even this late in the game. I was praying I'd talked you out of dropping out last semester," he added in a quiet, resigned voice, remembering his feverish pitch extolling all the virtues of completing one's high school education to a freshly-minted sixteen-year-old who was suddenly eligible to drop out and who hadn't seemed particularly receptive.

"Right, and I'm sorry I misled you into thinking you succeeded," Buddy stammered, pulling a crumpled schedule from his back pocket and letting it fall to the desk. "And that's why I'm actually here today, trying to make up for a past mistake. I-I wasn't planning on ever setting foot in this place ever again, so back then I just signed up for any old classes so you and my dad would get off my case." Straightening the printed schedule on the desktop with his hands, he sighed. "Y'see? 'Introduction to Typing,' but I can already type 60 words a minute. I taught myself a few years ago."

"And you'd like to register for more appropriate courses, because you've changed your mind about being a no-show tomorrow?" Al positively beamed, cautiously lowering the folder to the desk and then producing a thick, dog-eared booklet of course offerings. "I can _assure_ you that you won't regret this. Just name the classes you want and you're in. I don't care how full any course is; I can pull strings if necessary."

"So it's not too late? I appreciate it, sir...I mean, Al." _Well, then. Better get this one out of the way first._ Buddy paged through the booklet, finding the electives. "Instead of typing, I'd really like to take child development," he said earnestly.

His pen poised over the blank schedule, Al took on the quizzical expression Buddy had expected. "Oh? I wouldn't have seen that one coming," he remarked, not unkindly, as he recovered from his surprise and began filling out the schedule. "Are you considering a career working with children?"

"Maybe," came the teenager's guarded answer. "I've been helping at this day camp and it turns out I sorta like working with kids." He shrugged, then admitted, "I finally found something I'm good at. Who knows, I might go into teaching."

"It sounds like you've made a plan for yourself; that's excellent!" Al beamed. "I'll have you know there are scholarships funded by the local civic clubs, and they take community service into account. We'll make a deal: I'll let you know about any you're eligible for and help you with the applications and proofread the essays, so long as you keep on the straight and narrow. You always were a bit of an enigma, getting into frequent scuffles yet carrying such a high grade-point average." Clearing his throat, he added, "certain authorities wanted to expel you after that stairwell incident with that Miller kid, but I was able to talk them out of it - barely."

"I've gotta admit I'm not proud of that, but that's not who I am anymore," Buddy insisted. "Clyde and I are friends now, actually." A short, awkward time later, he gratefully left the office with a copy of his revised schedule, filled with courses he was actually looking forward to.

* * *

"Hey, are you _sure_ you're okay?" Clyde crouched down, his hands on his knees, regarding his friend with concern. The other teenager had arrived late for the last day of camp and had spent the better part of the morning sitting sullenly on a cinder block behind the township maintenance shed, brooding under a cloud of cigarette smoke. "What are you doing, anyway, lighting one off the other?" Clyde asked in jest, eyeing the cluster of stubs by his friend's tennis shoes.

"Aww, buzz off!" Buddy snapped irritably, then willed himself to change his tune, ruefully kicking at the butts on the ground and mashing them into the soil with the toe of his shoe. "I-I'm sorry. It's just that, well...are you half as nervous as I am about starting school again?"

"No way," Clyde said earnestly, who was gradually learning not to take offense at his friend's occasional brusqueness, since it seemed to be part of his nature. "You and me, we're going to walk in those doors tomorrow and take over the world, man! Nobody will be able to stop us."

His optimism suddenly made sense to Buddy. Of course _he_ wasn't anxious about returning to school; the one enemy he'd likely ever had was now on his side. _You're probably the type of person who falls asleep at night thirty seconds after your head hits the pillow,_ the older teen thought enviously. _Practically nothing to worry about._

"I wish it was nearly that easy for me," he said instead with a sigh, unable to put his fear into words. He was well aware that he had changed rather drastically over the summer, all by his own decision, and he was slowly growing more comfortable revealing to others who he had really been all along under the tough-guy exterior. Yet tomorrow, thanks to his promise to Al, he might as well be an entirely new kid starting school, and that thought was overwhelming. Since expressing all that to Clyde was impossible, he settled for telling him about his last-minute decision to change his course schedule.

"Oh yeah, and on the way out of the school they had this poster on the wall with a sign-up sheet for the A/V club. Y'know, audio-visual, working with filmstrip projectors and tape recorders and the like. Just for kicks I signed us both up; maybe it'll help for a future job or something."

"Yeah, who knows," Clyde remarked, though as an underclassman his post-high school plans were far from certain. "I never joined any clubs last year, but if you're going to insist on dragging me along, guess I'll give it a shot." He cast a glance over his shoulder. "You'll do just fine tomorrow, but for now we'd better get back to the kids."

* * *

The day had drawn to an end and the last of the campers had departed with promises to return next summer, but Buddy couldn't stop staring down at the stack of drawings the kids had given him as a farewell gift. One portrait stood out in particular, done meticulously by a child who must have stolen glances his way as he'd worked, re-creating his striped bandanna and dark clothing with remarkable detail, as well as the way his hair fell and even the gray of his eyes. He'd never really thought about how he must have looked to kids or anyone else for that matter, but even his exceptional height had been taken into account. In loopy bubble letters over his head, the artist had written, _You're the best._

"Bet you'll keep those forever," Clyde remarked, folding a plastic tablecloth and tucking it into a box for the senior counselors to put in storage.

"I sure will, but do you think you could hold 'em for me a while? I'm not heading right home, and I brought my bike today. I want to keep them nice and all." Buddy wiped sweat from his forehead, looking down into the large, almost startled-looking eyes on his drawing-self before surrendering the artwork to his friend.

"Sure, I could tote them home. You want them at school tomorrow, or maybe after school? I mean...maybe you'd want to hang out after school?" Clyde accepted the papers and tucked them into his backpack, taking reverent care not to crumple them, while his friend nodded. "Are you _sure_ you're okay to get home, though? You look too shaky to ride that bike."

"Aww, knock it off," said Buddy dismissively. "Save that 'mother hen' thing for the kids, not me. I'm fine, just a bit of a wreck. It's nothing a long ride out of town to clear my mind won't fix." He slung his own backpack over his shoulders before closing his clammy fingers around the bike's handlebars. "I'm fine," he repeated, not sure whether he was reassuring himself or Clyde.

"Okay," Clyde finally said before his friend pedaled off. "It's been real, and see you on the flip side."


	4. Hey, New Friend!

_Author's Note: This chapter contains violence and depressing content._

When he reached the edge of the park, Buddy squeezed the clamp brakes on his bike, forcing the ten-speed to a halt in the gravel, and peered back over his shoulder one final time at Clyde. His friend was toting the last box of camp supplies back to the township maintenance shed, the faint strains of some tune he was aimlessly whistling still audible even from far away.

"See ya tomorrow, pal," Buddy said quietly before pulling onto the rural highway. When the few houses and used car lots at the town limits were well behind him, he stopped again, reaching into his backpack to retrieve a long-sleeved Henley. The garment had been a purchase from his father, no doubt in a desperate attempt to encourage his son to wear any color other than the dreary black he favored, and though Buddy wouldn't have been caught dead in the baby-blue shirt at school, it was comfortable and practical to ward off the slight chill that had crept into the late summer air.

Coasting down a hill and looking around first to make certain no cars were on the horizon to witness his flight of fantasy, Buddy put his arms out to either side and closed his eyes, feeling the wind rushing through his hair while his striped bandanna flapped at his neck. He knew he probably resembled a bird trying to remain aloft on a current, but the sensation of near-weightlessness was heavenly and by the time the bicycle reached the railroad trestle at the foot of the hill, he already felt far lighter, as though he had somehow left at least some of his anxieties behind him in the breeze.

Perched on the trestle sometime later with his arms crossed over his chest until the warning whistle of an oncoming train beckoned him to move on, he pitched his last cigarette stub into the creek below, scowling at the empty pack in his hand before returning to his bicycle.

* * *

"Heyyy, new friend!" Buddy couldn't believe Clyde could stand to work at a place so insipidly and eternally cheerful, though it did at least make for a good fit with his high-spirited personality. Giving his best withering look to the costumed Fredbear character who had greeted him with entirely too much enthusiasm for a guest like himself who was well beyond the diner's target demographic, Buddy stepped sharply aside in a desperate effort to avoid the performer.

"Aww, stow it, bear," he grumbled under his breath, in a low voice so as to avoid drawing attention to himself, as he couldn't help but feel conspicuous weaving among the usual crowd of exuberant children half his age. "Ya want a pal, go hang out with the little kids." Ducking away from several clown characters in garish, smeared makeup, he shuddered once he had retreated to the dim light of the back hallway, leaning against the woodgrain wall for a moment and questioning more than ever how his friend felt remotely comfortable in such a surreal environment surrounded by uncanny characters.

 _Then again, he's quite the ray of sunshine himself, so maybe he's a great fit for this place._ No sooner had the thought struck him than Buddy found himself grinning for no particular reason he could place, and he advanced toward the cigarette vending machine, slinging his backpack over the nearby coat rack and fishing in his pocket for the quarters he always kept at the ready.

"Didn't anybody tell you?" No sooner had he fed his change into the coin slot and pulled the handle to deliver a fresh pack of the cheap cigarettes he favored, a gravelly voice interrupted Buddy just as a rough hand clamped onto his shoulder.

"Smoking is _very_ bad for you," taunted the man whose tone he already recognized, and with his purchased cigarettes entirely forgotten where they had fallen into the tray of the vending machine, Buddy twisted around in shock to face none other than his nemesis, the very stranger who had stalked his summer campers.

 _"You?"_ he croaked in disbelief, wondering how Clyde had failed to recognize one of his fellow coworkers as the driver of the mysterious purple car, even as he found himself being roughly marched to the back door of the restaurant and unceremoniously shoved, quite literally, out into the parking lot behind the building. Catching himself on all fours in the gravel, he spun around, noticing for the first time that the man wore a purple shirt similar in style to a police officer's, complete with contrasting epaulettes on the shoulders and a badge that seemed to designate him as some type of security guard or bouncer.

"You're working at a _kid's_ restaurant? But I know _who_ you are," Buddy cried in a potent mixture of dismay and outrage, his hands curling into fists. "We had a run-in before, remember?"

"Come to think of it, I hardly forgot that one, and I know who _you_ are as well," came the guard's curt warning. "Darken the doorstep of this establishment again and you'll be riding home in a police car." Recoiling from his adversary in horror and indecision, Buddy's heart sank in his chest, and he flinched when the door slammed before him, leaving him sprawled on his backside in the gravel lot. Maybe he was best off cutting his losses...

* * *

 _No..._ Rattling his ten-speed against the telephone pole he had padlocked it to for safekeeping, the unyielding length of chain pulling taut, Buddy thought ruefully of the key that he had stowed in the backpack he had been forced to leave behind when he'd been abruptly kicked out of the diner.

With no course of action left but to trudge dejectedly back to the restaurant, the former delinquent paused with his fist suspended inches from the same back door from which he had made his hasty exit, biting his lower lip.

 _C'mon, wuss,_ he chided himself, _just get over your fear, bang on the door a few times and demand to have your backpack returned. If_ he _answers, what's the worst he can do? You've probably got far more on him than he has on you, not that anyone would believe you..._

His knuckles connected with the steel door in a series of raps, interrupting his runaway imagination before he could lose his nerves entirely. Hearing the stomping and screaming of a gaggle of rowdy children on the other side of the wall, Buddy's hopes lifted somewhat. If he could only persuade the young guests to retrieve his bag, he could probably make it home before curfew.

"Hey, can someone open up, already? I need in!" he shouted as loudly as he dared. The door handle rattled momentarily, then fell still as though whoever had his hand on it had changed his mind about opening the thing.

"What's the password?" a youthful voice said, punctuating his words with a giggle.

"Just let me in!" shouted Buddy, by now incensed. _Little snot._ Landing one final, frustrated kick against the door, he moved toward what he hoped was the window to the kitchen. Though he only had a vague knowledge of the building's overall layout, he had stolen a glimpse into the kitchen on one of his previous visits, and he seemed to recall Clyde washed the dishes at a sink just below a glass-block window.

He had chipped a small piece of gravel at the panes when a vehicle pulled up behind him, and he turned to face the driver.

"Thought I told you to scram," came the familiar voice of the man he had just encountered moments before, and his dark eyes gleamed from the gloom of the car's interior.

"Look, just let me retrieve my backpack so I can unlock my bike and I'll be outta here, I swear," Buddy implored him, despising the tone of pleading and desperation that had crept into his voice. Though every shred of common sense he possessed internally screamed out to him that he was being foolish, he strode toward the driver's side window, peering at his adversary just as he had earlier that summer, back at the township park.

"Besides, you were just inside, working. Isn't it a little shady that you checked out early?" he asked, more strongly and suspiciously this time. The hands stretching out from the depths of the car closed so cruelly tight around his throat that he had no time to take the breath necessary to cry out or even gasp, and he slid heavily against the door on his way to the gravel lot below him.

* * *

 _"You ready to do this?" Buddy asked Clyde as they stood outside the doors to their high school, which had been propped open and seemed to be beckoning them inside. In the final moments before the late bell would ring, students were milling around on the front steps, eager to soak up the last dregs of the summer._

 _"Heck no," Clyde admitted, shooting a nervous glance at the crowd around them. A group of girls were passing around the latest issue of_ Tiger Beat, _discussing their shared admiration for the teen idol depicted within; a few kids were off to themselves in the solitude a portable radio and headphones could provide; and one upperclassman was brazenly smoking a cigarette, leaning back against the brick wall of the school and flaunting his devil-may-care attitude._

 _"I told you, you've got_ me _now. We're pals. Buddies," his friend joked, wisecracking about his nickname. "Yeah, it'll take a while for everyone to get that, considering how I was sorta hard on you last year, but they can like it or lump it." He smirked at Clyde. "Would it help if I held your hand like your mommy probably did on the first day of kindergarten?"_

 _Clyde returned a far more shy version of his smile before stifling a chuckle. "That sounds like a really poor excuse from a guy who just wants to hold hands." Extending his arm, he broke out into a beaming grin when Buddy unabashedly clasped his fingers around his own, giving his hand a light squeeze for reassurance, and then they strode inside the school, ready for anything._

* * *

"Huh?" Clyde's eyes slid open, the posters on the slanted ceiling of his attic bedroom slowly coming into focus. Across the room, a fan propped in the window was droning on noisily, almost drowning out the radio on his nightstand, from which Davy Jones was singing about daydream believers and homecoming queens.

 _Yeah, what could it mean?_ he wondered, resting for a little longer with his hands behind his head and puzzling over his dream. Eventually finding his way to his dresser, he shrugged into a t-shirt and dragged a comb through his winged hair, regarding the reflection in the mirror of an uncertain young man about to embark on his second year of high school.

In recent years he had painstakingly clipped photographs of celebrities, rock singers and sports stars he admired from newspapers and magazines, tucking them into the frame around the dresser mirror until it resembled a veritable wreath of well-known figures, interspersed with the occasional baseball trading card or family photo. Eyeing his own reflection in the center of the ring of famous people, Clyde tried out a genuine, friendly smile, still feeling unsure whether or not his new friendship would earn him any more respect from his classmates, then jammed his trademark ballcap over his hair, watching his face reddening in the mirror.

 _I like that guy,_ he admitted to himself, feeling unexpectedly comfortable with the surprising revelation, though he had only had crushes on his female peers in the past. _Or maybe it's just that I like_ a _guy._

* * *

 _Buddy, would you maybe wanna go out and get something to eat after school? It'd be my treat, using my employee discount at Fredbear's..._

Standing alone as ever outside the high school and this time certain he was not in a dream, Clyde mentally rehearsed what he wanted to ask his best friend whenever he finally arrived. He glanced anxiously at his watch as the seconds dwindled by; wondering why Buddy had not yet made the grand appearance he had promised.

"Aw, c'mon, what's the hold up?" he complained aloud, earning a concerned glance from an incoming freshman he vaguely remembered from junior high.

Moments later, he shuffled inside after stubbornly remaining in place even after the late bell had rung, sullenly accepting his tardy slip from a hall monitor.

 _I've been stood up,_ he lamented silently at lunchtime, seated by himself at a table and ignoring a tatertot that came sailing across the room to strike him square in the forehead. _He bailed on me. So much for "walking in there and taking on the world," huh?_ As brokenhearted as he felt, though, anger never came and he thought back to Buddy's anxious chain-smoking the day before. He _had_ been uncharacteristically skittish about his sudden decision to return to school, after all, and Clyde hoped he just had developed a case of nerves and could at least be persuaded to attend tomorrow.

 _Maybe we can still hang out after school, unless he was lying about wanting to do that, too._


End file.
